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Friday, April 01, 2011

A Delicate Flower

by Dan Powell

One day, though not a suspicious person by nature, Claudine decided to spy upon her husband. He had been coming home late more often than not in recent weeks and had been less than attentive for a good deal longer. Though she tried to dismiss the former as simply the outward effect of increasing pressure at work in a difficult economic climate and the latter as nothing more sinister than the natural cooling of their relationship into something harder and more lasting in readiness to weather their final years together, she couldn't shake her deepest fears free from her thoughts.

Unable to confront him she hid in his office as a vase of daffodils, perching unobtrusively on the window sill early one morning. She watched his work day marveling at the tedium of it as he shuffled his way through files and interminable phone conversations with someone called Derek. He disappeared at lunchtime and she turned her trumpeted, petaled heads to the window and watched the clouds. She thought of their life together, up till now an uncomplicated, some might say dull history, unfettered by children or commitments beyond those they had sworn to each other long ago; in short a simple, pretty, quiet little life.

The office door opening and a hushed voice shook her from her reverie.

'But you will tell her, won't you. Soon.'

And Claudine watched unable to move as her husband closed the door behind himself and his secretary, a woman Claudine had met many times before, watched him take her face in his hands and kiss her in a way Claudine could only barely remember being kissed.

'I will,' she heard him say, 'I promise.'

And with those words, unable to distinguish between the betrayal, the blatant cliche of the situation, and the heat from the midday sun blazing at her back, Claudine wilted.

To read all the dozens of stories swapped around as part of the #GAFDBBS, check out the index at Tony's blog Landless. For more fantastic flash, check out #fridayflash on twitter. We flash every Friday.

Yes Kathy, daffodils are the symbol here in Ontario, too. In fact, my hubby bought me a couple bundles yesterday and they are now cheerfully blooming on the kitchen counter. (I hope they're not the suspicious type.)Dan, you are the MAN. This was as fresh as the flowers themselves. And I agree with what Louise said about not making a big deal of it.Purty, Mr. Dan.

Dan, thanks so much for gracing my blog with your words -- super story, and like Louise said, i love the way you just have her turn into a vase of daffodils like it is no big deal. This has been loads of fun -- thanks for playing. Peace...

Thanks so much to all of you for your kinds words. So glad you liked the 'transformation' aspect. My wife likes this story but the unexplained metamorphosis bugs her - she likes her fiction on the realist end of the spectrum.

Massive thanks to Linda for hosting my story and allowing me to host hers. This kind of thing is exactly what the internet was made for.

Interesting story. The blase way that the transformation occurred was a bit of a jump. I reread it a couple times to make sure I hadn't missed the part about the camera. It's an interesting take and I appreciate the trust in the audience to accept it. Good job.

It would be interesting to explore what other powers she has besides transforming into daffodils. But this is beautiful, just the right details and very sad. Poor Claudine. Maybe she'll unwilt and get her man back ;-)

A nerve on fire...

Where I Hang

About Me...

By day, I'm an uptight and proper academic - you know, a publish or perish type who resides in tall towers with the likes of Rapunzul. In the evening, I morph into a lovable mom and wife, play with my children, hang with the hubby.
But when darkness falls and the house stills, I write.